Shikai
by ichibanseiken
Summary: Young Kuchiki Byakuya follows his nature, discovering his zanpakuto


I'd like to thank Rii no Ame for her generous help with sentence structure and punctuation in this piece, 'cause she can work magic that way.

_Disclaimer: Bleach belongs to Tite Kubo._

SHIKAI

The very structure of his life oppressed him. His innermost desires were for naught but freedom - energy freely spent, imagination unfettered – yet the demands of his station required him to reign in his impulses to enjoy life and, learn, instead, to become a man.

A Kuchiki man.

A controlling man.

Before controlling others, one must learn to control oneself. Thus, always hating himself for his needy search of his grandfather's approval, he stomped upon any signs of his own desires with his young, well-shod, barely adolescent foot. He'd control himself and his unfettered temper if it killed him.

The regimented order of his life dictated the way he rose, the way he bathed and dressed and broke his fast, the way he learned and trained and interacted with others – and the way he rested, too. Kuchiki Ginrei, the 27th head of the Kuchiki clan, saw the youth bend under a schedule demanding enough to break a man. Not without sympathy – for he was aware of the vigorous temperament which simmered underneath - he declared that his only grandson and heir rest after lunch every day.

Never did Byakuya dream that his pursuit to be a man would include a scheduled nap time. Training to connect with his zanpakutou? Most certainly. He was so close to knowing its name. Practicing even more exacting sword work? Definitely. Now that was a pursuit worthy of a noble warrior. Sitting in on meetings, bored to tears, even – at least that was a fitting activity for a noble _man_. No other noble men were, alas, restricted to an after-lunch nap time.

Nobody, however, dictated that he take his naptime in his bedroom, and Byakuya soon learned to employ his developing shunpo skills, enjoying his enforced rest further and further away from the Kuchiki manor. He'd put up with the loathed teasing which accompanied the game of shumpo tag, for it allowed him to train shunpo seriously. Chasing the Demon Cat from rooftop to rooftop, he allowed himself to sputter in indignation at her theft of his hair tie. He knew that this - this innocent game - was his ticket to freedom. More often than not, when Yoruichi's skilled hand snatched his hair tie and peals of her laughter rang in his ears, he chased her for that feeling of fire in the belly and exhilaration, the feeling of breathlessness that the sight of her sleek, knowing body elicited from him than for the hair tie itself. And she would throw her golden glance over her shoulder and toss her purple tresses, smiling her knowing smile. She was the Goddess of Flash, and speed was her gift.

And speed bore him far on this spring day, his black shihakusho but a darting shadow well outside of Seireitei. Nobody forbade him to leave its walls, and, always strategic, he'd never asked. The moist Rukongai spring air rushed against his porcelain skin as he broke through it, his flash-steps taking him past an old estate. It used to be a school and now stood abandoned, the vast gardens behind it overgrown with young woods, untended and wild. There were many places – under the windfalls of older trees, on a feather-bed of last year's leaves and greening moss, down by the creek on a flat, sun-warmed rock, trudging through the wet gorge and up the hill in a copse of old cherry trees, their buds swelling with incipient bloom. He harkened to that wildness and that's where he chose to take his scheduled and enforced rest.

He raced to his secret forest garden after lunch every single day, curious to see the buds burst, the tender petals exerting their unexpected strength against the nipple-dark sepals of the bud that held them in a tight embrace. He yearned to know their color, to inhale their scent. No amount of sleep would compare with the relaxing hush of the forest, wind caressing the stately crowns of the trees, the graceful limbs groaning overhead, whispering of ancient secrets. The branches bent low to shade his sleeping form with their scant protection, reaching almost to the ground, their bark smooth and youthful and unmarred much like his own skin. Yet their trunks were coarse, and even though their roots ran deep and were hale, the bark was cracked and hoary.

He was in love with those trees - the kind of love he had never felt for another person or spirit or thing – and his heart would overflow at the sight of their ruffled, blossom-laden branches as that heavy, hot feeling in his belly stirred again: that feeling particular to boys who were on the brink of manhood. The peculiar sensation he felt when he brushed by the Demon Cat in midair, the inconvenient distraction which rendered his keen mind suddenly useless in the course of his duties. On this day, standing in the grove of the blossoming cherry trees he inhaled their sweet, subtle fragrance and felt the heat stir along with his other senses.

He burrowed his nose into an inflorescence of sakura blossoms, their moist and dewy touch suddenly a sensuous tickle against his smooth cheek. He turned his head, allowing the translucent blossoms to stroke his graceful neck. His head fell to the side, allowing more access as the wind stirred the trees and the tender petals moved against his skin in a delicate caress.

Suddenly he felt too hot.

Aware of his body once again, he frowned at the sucking sound of wet mud within his tabi and waraji. Bending over, he loosened his sandals and kicked them off, his long fingers peeling the soaked tabi to reveal white, elegant feet. The grass underneath his skin felt moist and ticklish – he'd never recalled feeling any sensation with the exquisite sharpness as he felt it today, as though his sensitive soles could count every blade – and he hung his footware on a broken, dry branch nearby.

The air became humid.

He looked around, detecting no-one.

His reiatsu extended, searching, but finding the old buildings abandoned as before.

Perhaps just this once...

Ojii-sama would surely disapprove.

Yet he was alone.

He discarded his hair tie.

Slow, hesitant fingers untied his obi and the secure knots of his hakama. The fabric slid to the grass and moist, soft breeze caressed his legs.

Quickly, before he could change his mind, he loosened the ties of his kosode and shiitagi, slipping them off his shoulders.

A moment of hesitation.

Swift fingers loosened his fundoshi and stepped out of the nest of fabric, finally free.

Byakuya retrieved his zanpakuto from the crotch of the cherry tree trunks. He could abandon his attire but he could never leave his sword behind.

The sun peeked out of the gray clouds, flickering through the profuse masses of white petals, their edges tinged with the pales, most delicate blush of pink. Translucent and miniscule, the chartreuse leaves appeared in their wake. They called him. Beckoned to him. Lured by their sweet scent and feasting his eager, grey eyes on their generous profusion, he brushed his body against the drooping branches of the ancient tree. He felt enveloped by their beauty, secure in their delicate, subtle strength. He _felt_ their eternal perseverance to carry on.

His nose reached to bury itself in their fragrance again and as the soft smoothness of the petals caressed the supple skin of his body, his lips parted in a surprised gasp at the sensation. His generous mouth caressed the blossoms, their sweet fragrance suffusing his senses. The edge of a firm petal grazed the inside of his upper lip and he felt the lightest moan escape him, melting his body into the mass of profuse blossoms before him.

The branch quivered as he pressed against it, cool droplets of water quenching the heated skin of his shoulders in delicious contrast to the searing heat of his hardened length.

He surrendered, overwhelmed by a knee-melting, pleasurable sensation. His nipple caught against a rough twig and, unwilling to accidentally drop his zanpakuto, he grasped the hilt with his right hand. The assault on his senses only increased and his hips reached out for the soft caress of the delicate, fragile blossoms – just once more – just once again – and again –

He felt the heat coil tight in his loins as his reiatsu pulsated wildly and, with a quiet gasp, he exploded in a fury of intense, searing pleasure - his sword suddenly bare in his hand – his ivory skin sensitized to the least touch and caress of the soft blossoms, every scratch of the suddenly rough bark.

Lightning cracked overhead and the heavens opened in a downpour of cool rain. He stood there, solitary, his senses sated for the very first time, rivulets of water sluicing his skin so sensuously he almost bit his lip bloody. The heat at his loins slowly washed away, his body threatened to relax and falter when he noticed the heavy, unyielding droplets despoiling the cherry tree, bringing the petals of the blossoms down. The wind picked up as well and he stood there, heartbroken, the beauty he held so dear to his heart suddenly torn asunder. He stood there, naked in the rain, his hair plastered to his skull, his body clad in the petals of falling, wet cherry blossoms.

Something deep in his heart threatened to break and he grasped his sword tighter, seeking support against his sudden loss.

He felt the energy within his zanpakuto stir and reach out to him, enveloping him in caressing warmth. The voice he heard was not outside his body, yet he was no longer alone.

"_My name is Senbonzakura."_


End file.
